Chapters (87)
- Cover
- Praise
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- Extract from To Keep You Safe
- About the Author
I remember Jack had just broken up for the Easter holidays. Irene still helped out during the school holidays, but on that day she’d been ill and unable to have him. We’d been at home together and, woken from a Valium-induced nap, I’d become aware of Nick’s shouting. Getting up, I followed the shouts into the front room.
Nick lay collapsed on our brown leather chesterfield, crying and rocking back and forth like a toddler. In his hand he held the bloodied broom. In front of him, Jack was standing just out of reach.
Winston lay on the floor, clearly dead, and Nick was crying with regret; like Jack he was usually hard, as if the release of emotion was a struggle. I stood in the doorway, gripping the door handle. I could smell his beer. The only strong emotion I saw normally was anger flashing in his blue eyes.
I had gone years without seeing him cry and now this made two days in a row . . . things were becoming unravelled, fast. As I stood there, doing pathetically nothing, Nick’s howl reached a new higher level of anguish. Then he looked up and reached for his son. Jack stood in front of him, face expressionless. ‘Jack . . . come here’.
Jack reacted, snapped out of his stasis. He clutched his hands to his cheek, his eyes pure rounds of fear. And I finally noticed a dribble of blood slowly running from his nostril.
I think I yelled: ‘What have you done?’ They didn’t even notice me.
‘Please,’ Nick begged him. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. So sorry. Please forgive me.’
Sorry.
A dead dog and a bloodied son. The word hangs in the air. This was new – Nick hitting Jack – but the apology was so pointless, so redundant and powerless, it felt like an affront to be there at all. Sorry? A dead dog and we have sorry?
I think about Issy warning me of this – and I dismissed it. I said it could never happen.
Jack shuffled away from his dad. Instead, he stood in the corner, next to the painted original Victorian shutters that I had personally sanded and painted with three coats of perfect Silk Sigh White. I loved those shutters, but I knew I would never look at them again without thinking of this moment. My son turned his head away from us both and stood so close as if he was examining my work. There were two imperfections about where his head was, two hairs that came away from the brush unnoticed, now caught forever in the paint. It bugged me more than I knew it should, those hairs. When I cleaned I always trailed my nail over them, hoping to knock them free. It would leave a chip in the paint, but then I knew I’d have the excuse to make a repair.